Trailer Trash
by S-AIA-A
Summary: When Beth Greene gets knocked-up by Daryl Dixon, Hershel demands they get married.


Beth Greene had never gone though the stereotypical rebellious phase as a teenager. She had heard all the half-whispered, giggly stories about other people her age—sneaking out at night to go to unauthorized parties with unauthorized dates, shoplifting, drinking whatever cheap, lukewarm beer they could get their hands on, occasionally smoking a joint or getting a tiny tattoo.

Beth had heard it all, but she'd never been part of it. She had been too busy being the baby of the family—coddled by parents who knew her entire schedule and would grill her if she took twenty minutes getting home from choir practice instead of the usual fifteen. But that was okay—most of the time, she really didn't feel like she was missing out on _too_ much.

Well . . . most of the time.

Beth had just graduated high school about a month ago. It was an odd sensation—like one chapter of her life had ended, and the other was taking much too long to begin. She felt stuck. Stalled. In limbo. Just sort of drifting along as the empty days yawned before her, nothing to do until she moved to college in the fall. Beth hadn't ever had this problem with the summertime before—usually, when she wasn't practicing with the church choir, she was hanging out with her friends—but it seemed like everyone had vanished this year, busy with their own changing lives.

Beth was _supposed_ to be visiting Maggie for a few weeks—road tripping, like they'd always planned to do after Beth graduated—but apparently there was a _huge_ festival going down in Little Rock for the next two weeks that Maggie just _had_ to go to. And so the sisterly bonding had been pushed back to _next_ summer. Even though Maggie wouldn't have been able to see it over the phone, Beth had smiled and said that it was fine, she understood, and to have fun—all the while fighting the urge to heave a disappointed (but not really surprised) sigh.

It was with this sense of aimlessness and boredom that Beth had agreed to drive a very expensive car (she knew nothing about it other than it was red and sleek and could go really fast if there were no cops around) through six towns so that her Uncle Greg wouldn't have to ship it up some other way. Once she had agreed, Beth had even gotten a tiny bit excited at the prospect—she had never traveled alone before, but she was an adult now. She was leaving home in the fall—she could prove to herself, and to her parents that she was mature enough to handle three days of self-reliance and responsibility.

Hershel had been worried, wringing his hands at the idea of his baby girl on a twenty-hour (not counting rest- and sleep-stops) road trip all alone. But, after some gentle chastising from her mother, they'd reached a compromise—Beth's entire itinerary was planned almost to the minute: she would be staying only in highly-reputable hotels, taking only busy streets, eating only in family restaurants, and—most importantly—she was to _call home_ every two hours, and before bed every night. After she reached her uncle's house, she would take a bus back down to Senoia.

The arrangement put a bit of a damper on Beth's mood. She might not feel like an adult yet, exactly, but she certainly wasn't a little kid anymore. Did she really need to have her hand held like this from a thousand miles away?

This was Beth's second night on the road, and things were already going to crap. This morning, she'd gotten all turned around somewhere in Georgia. Her GPS had gone haywire, which Beth suspected was because all technology lived to spite her. She'd wasted most of the day on dusty back roads, lined by nothing but trees, trees, trees—not a single building or road sign to be found for miles at a time. She'd dutifully called Hershel every two hours, as promised, and had had to put up with him ranting and raving in her ear about the whole venture being a terrible idea while she tried desperately to find her bearings.

Beth had eventually—miraculously—stumbled upon the highway once again, but by then it was early evening. And she was _not_ willing to risk those dumb sign-less roads in the dark, so she'd pulled into the first motel she could find and asked for a room. This had sent her father into conniptions over the phone, but _oh freakin' well, daddy, do you expect me to sleep in the car?_ After another twenty minutes of listening to her father list all of the reasons she wasn't ready for this and she should just come home right now and his brother-in-law Greg could just hire someone more qualified and deal with it, Beth had cut him off with an abrupt goodnight and hung up the phone.

So here she was, sitting in a trashy redneck restaurant/bar just off the highway in a tiny town in backwoods Georgia, hoping to God that the silverware she was eating her greasy dinner with had been washed some time in at least the past year, all cranky and exhausted and sick to death of feeling like a child and being told what to do all the time and just accepting it like a good little girl.

Enter Daryl Dixon.

Daryl didn't usually go to Emery's after work. He wasn't really much for hanging with the boys from the road crew, but he'd walked in on Merle on top of some chick when he'd gotten home. Daryl'd caught an unpleasant eyeful and a _'what the fuck you doin', boy? Just 'cuz you can't get no woman to even look at'cha don't mean you get to watch me!'_ before he managed to bolt. He'd ended up at Emery's out of a lack of anything better to do, a little extra cash in his pocket, and the desire to eat crappy food that he at least didn't have to catch and cook himself. Besides, he'd heard the guys saying they were coming here to celebrate, and Daryl figured buying the foreman a drink on his birthday might catch him some breaks at work later on. Couldn't hurt.

He didn't even notice the little blonde girl at first—he'd just hung back from the rest of the guys, drinking and not really talking. He wouldn't know what the hell to say, anyway. It wasn't until a few beers later when one of the boys caught sight of her and brought it up with the group. Then the talking started—s _he wasn't from 'round here, nice tits though, and pretty face, too bad she's sittin' down 'cause I'd like to get a look at 'er ass_ —the usual shit. Cooter dared Bo to go buy her a beer, but Chris (pussy-whipped newlywed) ruined their fun by threatening to tell their girlfriends.

"Hey, Daryl!" exclaimed the birthday-boy, Pete, a little too loudly as he moved out to the edge of the group, clapping Daryl on the shoulder and making the younger man flinch at the sudden contact. "Yer' single, aint'cha? I mean, ya ain't never talked 'bout a girlfriend or nothin'." The guys all turned to look at him, and Daryl shifted his weight uncomfortably. This is why he never hung out with the guys—he didn't like this center-of-attention, talking-about-himself shit.

Daryl shrugged stiffly, wishing they would all stop looking at him and that Pete would stop touching him. "Nah," he muttered, ducking his head and hoping they'd lose interest.

They didn't. "Well, Hell, boy!" boomed Neckbone, the oldest man on the crew. "What'cha waitin' on?" he demanded, tugging on his scraggly gray beard. "Git over there 'n buy that bitch a beer! Least one of us should get laid tonight!"

Cooter elbowed Bo and they both snickered. "Neckbone, man, you gettin' senile. Dixon's been in this bar less times 'n Bo here's gotten laid in his whole life—which is pretty damn sad by itself–" Cooter ignored Bo's sputtered _'Hey!'_ and continued smoothly, "–an' I ain't never seen 'im say more'n two words to a girl in 'ere. He ain't got the balls."

The group turned away from the dim corner where Daryl had been standing, laughing their asses off. In a few seconds, they were already on a new topic, but Daryl's blood was boiling.

Maybe it was what Merle said earlier, or all the beer, or the fact that damn it, Cooter'd been telling the truth—whatever it was, Daryl found himself making his way around the distracted group and walking up to the booth in the corner where the pretty blonde was sitting.

She didn't seem to know he was there at first. She was too busy glaring at her fries, angrily smearing ketchup around her plate like a gory crime scene. Daryl hesitated, not knowing what to do next, because hell, Merle and Cooter were right, he didn't do shit like this. He had no clue how to deal with women that didn't get paid to do it regular.

"Uh . . ."

The girl looked up at him. Her eyes looked very blue. Her lips looked very soft.

Daryl fumbled for something to say so he wouldn't look like an idiot, trying to ignore the suddenly-hushed whispers of interest from the group he'd left behind.

Shit, now that he looked at her up close, he realized she couldn't be more than eighteen. If even. It was something about her eyes—big and round and just . . . soft. Even when she'd been glaring at her food, it'd looked nothing like he'd ever seen on a mad woman before (and he'd seen a lot of them, thanks to Merle). Most of them had eyes hard enough it felt like you were slamming into a brick wall when they looked at you. But this girl . . . this girl was just so . . . open. Inviting.

She wasn't wearing makeup. She had a silver charm bracelet on her left wrist. There was a fancy cell phone sitting on the table, off to the side. Her sundress was white and yellow and she was drinking a Coke.

And, damn it, he still hadn't said anything.

"You, uh. You wantin' somethin' stronger?" he asked, gesturing to her drink with a hand that still held a half-empty beer bottle.

The girl turned her eyes from him briefly to see what he was pointing at, before settling her gaze back on him again. Her eyebrows were crinkled, and there was a small, confused smile on her face. "I'm sorry?"

Daryl shifted his weight, feeling like an idiot. He couldn't look her in the eye. "'Cause if ya did, uh, want it, I could, y'know . . . buy it. For ya'." And shit, did he sound retarded.

The girl looked back up at him, a wariness in her posture that he was used to seeing in women when they looked at him. Daryl took a half step back, ready to just end it then and there, but she glanced at the cell phone and a sudden spark lit up her eyes. She grinned up at him.

Daryl started, shocked. Women didn't look at him like that—he'd seen them look at other men like that, but never at him. It was the same look that they wore around Merle after they'd had a little too much to drink and Merle'd whispered some nasty promises into their ears. It was a playful look. A hungry look.

But damn, if that wasn't a good look on her.

"Sure," the girl said, swinging her body sideways in the booth so she was facing him straight-on. "Sit. Help me finish my fries?"

Daryl's answering smile was small, but eager.

The rest of the evening went by in a whirlwind. They made small talk, he bought her a beer, she let him drive her uncle's red Maserati down the dusty backroads at high-speed—and in the end, they'd tumbled into her motel bed in a tangle of heated, clumsy limbs.

It was the best night of Daryl's life.

In the few short hours they'd spent together, Beth had made him feel . . . _wanted_. No one had ever wanted him before. He'd only been a burden to his dad, to Merle, to society—but with Beth, she'd completely flipped the tables on him. For once in his miserable life, she made him feel _good_ , like he wasn't a complete waste of space in this miserable shithole called earth.

She'd been patient with him when he had trouble working up the nerve to talk, she'd giggled at his corny-ass jokes and had listened to him talk about his passion with hunting, hanging off of every word like it was actually important, like it _mattered_. He'd never felt such a strong, genuine desire to be around another human being.

Daryl had been with very few women in his thirty-four years, most of them paid for their company. Release with them had always been a physical inevitability, never holding much significance until he'd had Beth writhing beneath him, her long, long legs wrapped around his hips. It wasn't until he'd pushed inside did Daryl realize it was her first time and for some reason that made him feel even more special—that this girl trusted him (some old piece of redneck scum) enough to give him her cherry.

No part of him had been left untouched then—he'd quaked from head to toe, all of him alive. And when the deed was done, he'd had this sudden desire to bask in the afterglow with her and listen to her talk about anything and everything. But that wasn't the kind of guy he was—he was a Dixon, after all. He couldn't lie to himself and pretend he didn't want her, but he also knew there was no sense pining over something he couldn't really have. And while his skin itched for the feel of her softness, he couldn't give into those kinds of thoughts either because if he didn't get her out of his system, he was going to start craving her like Merle did his drugs. And if there was one thing, Daryl would never let himself become, it was an addict.

So he'd left after she'd fallen asleep, unknowingly leaving a part of himself behind.


End file.
